


don't cut the thread

by gazing



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Depression, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pining, Romance, Sad, Surreal, any more tags would be spoilers im sorry, copious uses of 'my dear', crowley wears a ponytail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26448220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gazing/pseuds/gazing
Summary: On a dull day like any other, a stranger wakes Crowley from his sleep.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	don't cut the thread

The coffee wasn't strong enough, Crowley thinks.

He rests his head against the cool glass of the bus window. The rhythm as the wheels hit the ground lulls him, and the vibrations of the bus against his cheek are soothing. He's loosened the top button of his shirt, and he let his hair free from his small ponytail, so why are his shoulders still so stiff?

Crowley sighs, his slight breath fogging up the glass. Outside, he watches the grey world pass by. The sun is setting, so everything is cast in shadow. Slight raindrops trickle down the other side of the glass. He can feel the cold, wet air as it seeps through the window and chills his face.

He imagines he's on the road to anywhere. This could be a bus that takes him far away from the weak coffee, the long hours, and the dull days in front of the office computer. Could he drive to another city, a far away place, where an adventure is waiting for him? Rather than the cold bed waiting for him at home, might he be free?

As the bus pulls into another stop, his eyes flutter shut.

Dreams, he thinks, are so much  _ more. _

The rain picks up, and Crowley's breathing slows. He falls asleep like that, his coat hanging loosely over his shirt and his hair falling over his face. He dreams of constellations he's never seen, and worlds he's never visited, while the bus drives the same route it always does, and always will.

As the years go on, he has begun to sleep more and more. It's better than being awake.

"Wake up." A soft voice murmurs.

Crowley doesn't stir. With his lips parted, and his eyelids flickering as he dreams, he seems to be somewhere far from the passengers of the bus. He murmurs something in his sleep and turns his face away.

"Come on, dear." The voice says again.

The first thing Crowley notices when he wakes is that there's a gentle, but firm, hand on his shoulder. He opens one eye to look blearily at the stranger hovering over him. Crowley sees sparkling eyes and a smile before he rubs a hand over his face.

"Ngk."

The man's hand falls back to his side. He looks down at Crowley fondly, with as much kindness as an old friend. He tugs at the hem of his large sweater, his hands small and soft, and Crowley blinks at him. 

"What-" Crowley starts.

He freezes when the man leans down and tucks his hair behind his ear.

"You're going to miss your stop." The stranger says. 

"But how did you-" Crowley's voice trails away when he glances out of the window. He yelps, jumping out of his seat to press the  _ Stop  _ button. 

"I'd hurry if I were you." 

Crowley is hazy from sleep, and confused as hell. But still, his mouth quirks up into a sharp, crooked smile. There's a pink blush to the man's cheeks that suits him, and makes Crowley go soft inside. The man tugs at his white hair nervously.

"Uh." Crowley says, tugging his coat tighter around himself and standing up. The man lets him pass. "Cheers?"

He steps quickly down the bus and into the smell of the rain. For a moment, he stands at the bus stop in a daze. By the time he moves again, his hair is soaked, his coat is sticking to his skin, and he shivers slightly. 

But his heart feels lighter than it has in years.

(Crowley doesn't know he was supposed to die on that bus. As he walks home, he's blissfully unaware that the man's gentle words had rewritten fate.)

⋆

Crowley grumbles to himself as he steps onto the bus.

He pulls his dark scarf over his face. A few strands of hair from his ponytail tickle his face, and so he brushes them aside. It's late, as always, the sun setting in black shades behind the bus windows. Crowley steps under a ray of low sunlight as he walks to the back of the bus.

But on his way to his usual seat, Crowley's eyes catch  _ him _ . His small hands are holding a book, and those soft fingers that had woken Crowley so gently are slowly turning the pages. He wears an old fashioned suit, and his eyes flicker up to meet Crowley's before darting away quickly.

"You're going soft." Crowley mumbles to himself.

Wordlessly, he sits in the seat beside the man.

The silence between them is so warm compared to the wind outside. Crowley lets himself relax against the hard seat. He loosens his hair from its tie and lets out a long sigh.

"Rough day?" The man asks.

"Rough life." Crowley smiles bitterly.

The man turns to look at him, and there's something so innocent about his face. Crowley has only ever known harshness and hatred, and it's wounded him to the bone. All of his life he's been alone, cast aside and misunderstood. He's been tied down to his family's business for as long as he can remember, and thrown into a world he never wanted to live in.

But this stranger has been so kind to him, for seemingly no reason, that Crowley almost begins to believe in goodness again.

Crowley winces at his own sentimentality and plucks the book from the stranger's hand.

"What's this?" He asks, ignoring the man's splutter of protest.

"Well, it's-" 

Crowley turns the book curiously in his hand. The old leather cover, and the yellowing pages, suggest its old and probably valuable. The man reaches out for it, and Crowley sets it obediently back into his palm.

"Charles Dickens." Crowley says, crossing his legs. 

"First edition." The man says proudly.

Crowley looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He's looking down at his book with a child-like glee that Crowley can't help but want to keep for himself. How long is it since Crowley has been anything but  _ bored?  _ A slight smile has twitched onto his face against his will.

"How are the plants?"

The man's gaze is warm on his face. Crowley's eyes widen at his question. He turns to the man sharply.

"You really shouldn't speak so harshly to them, my dear." The man continues.

"How the  _ hell  _ do you know that?"

"Well," The man smiles, "That would be telling."

Despite himself, Crowley's eyes glint with curiousity and mischief.

"My plants are fantastic, thanks." He says, "My methods can't be rivalled."

A car passing the window distracts him. He jumps from his seat and presses the  _ Stop  _ button.

"Sorry," He says, leaning on the seat behind him. "Got to dash."

The man looks back to his book. Crowley shrugs and turns away, pulling his coat tighter around him, but then halfway down the bus he changes his mind and whirls around.

"I'm Crowley!" He calls.

There it is, that smile again, all sweet and shy. How could this man possibly look at him like that, as if they'd known each other for centuries, as if there were only two of them in the entire world? It's impossible. But there he is sitting clutching his book, as the invisible string between them pulls ever tighter.

"Aziraphale." The man says.

(Crowley does not know it, but Aziraphale has guarded him his whole life. Crowley is one of thousands of humans that Aziraphale has guided through their fate, but Crowley is the only one he has broken every single rule for).

⋆

The first snowfall is heavy, this year.

Crowley is glad he wore his coat. He shakes the snow from his woolly hat and rubs his gloved hands together as he waits for the bus. The shelter of the bus stop keeps the snowflakes away, but even still the bitter winter breeze reaches him - his nose and cheeks are bright red.

Still, the cold night is far softer than his day at work been. Crowley looks out into the dark sky, watching the snow fall and line the pavements. He lets out a breath, and it comes out in a white wisp. 

_ When will this life be over? _

He hears footsteps as someone comes to stand beside him.

"Aziraphale." Crowley says, the name familiar on his tongue. He's still looking at the sky.

Through bus rides and small journeys, Crowley had begun to know him. Aziraphale slipped into his life like an old love he'd forgotten. He's his first and only friend, and Crowley treasures memories of him. The cake crumbs by his mouth once. The sound of a book page when he turns it. His voice when he says goodbye.

"Good evening." Aziraphale murmurs.

Crowley looks at him. Standing in his jacket under the bus stop, looking up at Crowley, he seems almost angelic. He gives Crowley a small, but warm, smile. 

"Lovely weather we're having." Crowley drawls, and Aziraphale chuckles.

"The first snowfall has a long history, you know." Aziraphale says.

"Huh."

"No matter how many times I see it," Aziraphale holds out his hand and lets the snowflakes fall onto his palm. He looks almost melancholy. "I still find it magical."

A sentimental fool, Crowley thinks, as he looks at him. Silently, he takes off his coat and wraps it around Aziraphale's shoulders. 

Aziraphale turns his head to look at him.

"Thank you, my dear." He murmurs.

Crowley scowls. He's glad he's wearing his hat, because surely his ears are turning red. Still, these lovely moments are one of the only things that keep him living. Coffee, his plants, sleep, and recently, Aziraphale. 

"Dress properly." He grumbles.

Without his thick coat, Crowley shivers a little. He stands in his shirt and lets the bitter cold ruffle it. It slips underneath his sleeves to brush against the old scars on his wrist.

"The bus is here." Aziraphale says.

It's become a routine. Aziraphale's seat, and Crowley's seat, right at the back of the bus. Aziraphale lets him sit next to the window, and so Crowley collapses into the chair. He thinks even when they aren't sitting here, their spirits still rest in these chairs, laughing about something as the bus hits a speed bump.

"Have you ever built a snowman?" Aziraphale asks.

When he sits beside Crowley, their legs brush. It's a warm point of contact that Crowley savours even when Aziraphale quickly twitches away from him.

"Nah."

"What about a snowball fight?"

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

"Yes." Aziraphale says sadly. A note of melancholy passes over his face, a familiar shadow that Crowley has gotten used to, and knows better than to ask about. "Neither have I."

"Would it not be nice, to sit by the fire and drink hot cocoa?" Aziraphale sighs.

Crowley swallows a lump in his throat at the image of the two of them close and warm.

"What's brought this on?"

  
Aziraphale's eyes are unreadable on the dark bus.

"Nothing at all, my dear." He says, "I suppose the snow is making me sentimental."

"Hmph."

Silence falls, as pure as the blanket of snow that falls on the pavement. Crowley slumps in his seat. More and more, he feels that the darkness inside of him is matched by Aziraphale. Despite appearances, there is more than enough pain between the two of them to last a lifetime.

Crowley closes his eyes.

Under the guise of sleep, he rests his head on Aziraphale's shoulder.

He smells of old books and cake and boiled tea, he thinks. His face grows warm, but he stays there, tucked against Aziraphale's side. If he could rest there forever, safe and comfortable, could he make up for the miserable thirty years of life he'd suffered through?

"Crowley?"

Aziraphale's voice is quiet. After a pained sigh, he rests his head on the top of Crowley's.

"Rest now." Aziraphale murmurs. "It'll be alright."

The rhythm of the bus soothes him as it always does. Crowley can't help but smile to himself. The back of his gloved hand brushes Aziraphale's, and he thinks his heart might be failing him. It's fluttering like snowflakes on tree branches.

"I should take another bus." Aziraphale whispers, perhaps just to himself.

_ No,  _ Crowley thinks.

_ But who else would understand me, if you were gone? _

(Crowley doesn't know that Aziraphale has suffered through his pain with him. He'd fallen in love with Crowley's mischief, his sharp eyes, his smile. And he'd watched as the world trampled on his spirit. 

Aziraphale knew that pain well. He, too, had lost all of his hope as the centuries went on and fate was always,  _ always  _ cruel. Until one day, when he changed history. He gave up his title of  _ guardian angel,  _ and he saved Crowley's life.)

⋆

Aziraphale doesn't take the bus anymore.

His absence rattles around Crowley's dark heart. He crosses his arms. Leaning his head against the bus window, watching the world pass him by, Crowley thinks of the simple moments that had lightened up his otherwise gloomy days. 

Aziraphale sat with his hands crossed. Polite. Whenever he met Crowley's eyes, he would look away quickly, or smile shyly. There was sometimes, if Crowley was lucky, a lovely pink blush in his cheeks. 

"Give it a rest." Crowley mutters to himself.

He stares stubbornly out of the window. He knew, deep in his heart, that those golden nights would end. Nothing good ever lasted, after all. So why does it still hurt? Had he, beneath his cynicism, been hoping that this, at least, would last?

Even now, he still looks for Aziraphale every time he steps onto the bus.

"Idiot." He says, covering his face with his hands.

What was worse? To live without him, in dull ignorance? Or to live with him happily for a while, but then to be left with the knowledge that he might never find someone like him again?

He wishes Aziraphale had never approached him.

The bus pulls up to his stop. Crowley, as always, pulls his coat tighter around himself and rises to his feet. Every step down to the door is loud in his ears. He wants to leave this universe, this god forsaken world, that has never been kind to him.

As winter leaves them behind, the sun sets earlier. Crowley steps out into the sunset and pulls his scarf over his mouth, unwilling to let the tears fall.

"Crowley." A familiar voice says.

Crowley looks up. 

Aziraphale stands under the bus stop, and despite everything, Crowley smiles. It might be in that crooked sort of way, with his eyes still as sharp as ever, but he smiles with all of the love his weary heart can muster.

"I'm sorry." Aziraphale says, and then he strides towards him and kisses him.

He has to bend upwards. His hands clutch Crowley's coat, and under his soft lips Crowley melts and embraces him. Strange, he thinks, with Aziraphale's warm body pressed against him, how easily he forgives, falling deeper into Aziraphale's arms.

Aziraphale pushes Crowley away from him gently and looks at him with wide eyes.

"You were meant to die." He says, in a rush of breath. "That first day you met me, fate wrote that you were to die on that bus."

Crowley blinks at him.

"But I couldn't let you."

Aziraphale runs a hand through his hair.

"They taught me that destiny was kind." He says loudly,  _ furiously,  _ and there's an anger in his reddening face that Crowley has never seen before. Perhaps Aziraphale has a sharp edge beneath his softness. "They taught me every moment had a reason. Oh, the thread of fate was  _ kind  _ they said."

Aziraphale laughs bitterly.

"When I became a guardian angel," He says, "I trusted that the universe was as it should be. And then you- you-"

Under that bus stop, in early spring, Crowley watches Aziraphale fall apart.

"You came to me, and your soul was so bright, and I watched fate rip you in two because that was what was  _ meant to be." _ Aziraphale lets out a ragged breath. There are no tears in his eyes, even as Crowley's own tears glitter on his cheeks. "But I couldn't watch you die."

"Not before you got your spirit back." Aziraphale says. "Not before you could smile every day. Not before you could  _ finally  _ be happy."

Then, quieter.

"You are the only person in the universe that I've ever wanted to live." He says. "Even as they told me,  _ don't cut the thread _ ."

The words settle. Crowley believes them, easily. He has no reason not to trust the sincerity in Aziraphale's eyes, nor the way he desperately grips his hair, seeking for some answer, some solution in this vast, horrifying universe. 

Crowley watches as torn wings flicker behind Aziraphale's back. They're darkened by his betrayal of destiny, and now, they show themself to him. They're as beautiful as Aziraphale. As old, worn, and wonderful as he is.

"I shouldn't be here." Aziraphale swallows. "I let you have control of your own fate, so I shouldn't keep seeing you, but I can't stop waiting for you on that damned bus."

Crowley steps towards him. He smiles down at him, an old, mischevious glint shining in his eyes.

"Crowley, my dear, can't you give me mercy? Won't you leave me be? I keep longing to be human too."

Aziraphale covers his face with his hands.

"Oh, I've made such a mess of things." He says.

Crowley prises Aziraphale’s hands away from his face gently.

Along the torn thread of fate, joy waits for them.

"Oh, on the contrary, angel," He laughs. "I've never been happier."

**Author's Note:**

> crying


End file.
